


As if Death Itself was Undone

by bloomsburys



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: F/M, S2E2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomsburys/pseuds/bloomsburys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what they are: they dance between the lines of innuendos and sarcasm, always saying what they think but never quite what they feel. She wants him to understand. (Alternate scene in S2E2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	As if Death Itself was Undone

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm technically on hiatus for NaNoWriMo at the moment, but this came in my head when I was watching S2E2 last night, and I felt I needed a little reprieve from my NaNo novel, so here you go. A little Galex to brighten your November. It's my alternate version of the scene in which Alex is just telling Gene what he means to her, after she finds out he's playing the Masons, and Shaz bursts in and ruins it…though of course, my version is sans Shaz. :P
> 
> Eleantris :)
> 
> Disclaimer – I don't own Ashes to Ashes, and any dialogue you recognise here is quoted straight from the show.

She looks at him, hazel melting into stormy blue, and for a moment, her breath catches. Suddenly the table beneath her doesn't feel stable anymore, and her bones tremble with something akin to longing. His hands are resting on the back of the chair she has her feet propped up on, so that he's leaning towards her, over her. His scent winds its way into her sinuses and around her soul; he smells like whiskey and tobacco smoke and safety, and she has the fleeting thought that she never wants him to be any further away from her than he is right now. The words fall as whispers from her lips.

"Thank you."

He looks surprised. "Why?"

Swallowing, she tries to work out how to phrase all the thoughts that are creating chaos in her head. A million impulses are running through her veins, and she tries to slow them down one by one so she can create the right words to say what she means. To let him know how important he is to her. He is her rock, her one constant in this place, and she doesn't know how long she can continue to hold him at arm's length. She decides to speak honestly, and she can feel the vulnerability break in her voice when the words come tumbling out, hesitancy marking her syllables.

"Because I'm scared a lot of the time and you, ah…were one of the only things I could rely on. For being…stubborn and angry. Conceited…"

She's aware that this isn't going quite where she'd planned, but he doesn't look insulted. Instead a strange look comes into his eyes – affront, yes, but something else beneath that. Something softer that she can't quite define.

"You'll have me blushing," he says, and his gaze snaps away from her. Yet she still feels the connection, humming between them, electricity with no wire.

A soft sigh escapes her, and she leans further forward, trying to re-establish that connection, pull his gaze back up to hers.

"You don't get it, do you?" she says softly, and that seems to get his attention. Which is good, because she's about open her heart to him here. "You don't get it. I thought I'd lost you."

The surprise that dawns on his face upon hearing her words is subtle – a light softening in his eyes, the slight parting of his lips. Gently, a frown indents his brow.

"Lost me, Bols? What yer talking about? I'm right here."

He's trying to make light of what she's trying to tell him, to brush it off, but underneath, she knows he can feel the same things as she does. He must do.

"You make me feel safe, Gene," she tells him quietly, not prepared to let him brush her off because he's scared to be serious for once. This is what they are: they dance between the lines of innuendos and sarcasm, always saying what they think but never quite what they feel. She wants him to understand. "I don't know how, but you do."

His gaze dips down again, not to her lips like it did earlier, when she all but begged him to let her in to his world, but to the floor, like he can't look her in the eye. "S'my job, Bolly. No need to get all mushy about it."

Her head shakes without her mind even registering the reaction. She reaches out without thinking to place a hand on his arm, and his gaze returns to hers. They communicate for just a split second in silence, and he allows her to leave her fingers resting against his arm, as though she's trying to convince herself of something.

"No, it's not. It's your job to make them feel safe, out there on the streets. Not me. But you do."

For a moment, he says nothing, but his eyes look bluer somehow – like the storm has cleared somewhat. She feels the same thing happening inside of her, clarity settling in.

"I go where I'm needed, Bols," he tells her, and it's an attempt to brush what she's trying to say aside again. But his voice is lower now, less certain. His eyes drift away and back. This time, he holds her gaze, and a promise burns in the depths of his pupils. "Whenever you need me, I'm right here."

She can barely breathe, and she's drunk on his proximity, the gravel of his voice and the rough cadence of his words. Her next words don't rise above a broken whisper.

"Don't say that."

"Why not?"

Her bottom lip slowly sinks back into her mouth, the tip of her tongue peering out to wet it and she swallows. "Because…"

She takes a breath, but it isn't enough. Her voice is light, quiet, like she's admitting her secrets at confession and is scared that God may be listening at the door. She meets his gaze again, and he sees a kind of soft sadness in her eyes.

"Because sometimes I feel like I need you a lot more than I should. If you held yourself to that, you'd be glued to my side."

At first he says nothing, and the silence in those few seconds is fragile – dangerous and delicate. And then he stands up, lifting his hands up off the back of the chair. For one horrible moment she thinks he's going to turn to leave, but he doesn't. Instead he moves slightly to the side, stepping around the chair to stand by her knees, so that now he really is standing over her, looking down at her, and she can't tear her eyes away from his.

She catches the brief flicker his gaze makes downward and realises that from his new vantage point, he can see directly down her top. When she brings her own eyes back up to his face, she can see the beginnings of a smirk there, the hint of black lace making him smile.

"I don't know, Bols… Wouldn't be so bad." He quirks a suggestive eyebrow upwards, and she's sure he has no idea what that does to her – how a thrill slips deliciously down her spine, how it burns sinfully in her blood. She feels herself drawn like a magnet, leaning forwards.

"You're impossible."

He snorts. "Make up yer mind, Bols! You were waxing lyrical about my many qualities just a minute ago."

She smiles, and it's a natural curve of her lips that illuminates her whole face. "I was thanking you, Gene," she corrects him softly, and there's no disdain in her voice.

"I know, Bols." He suddenly looks serious again, and she marvels at how he does that – how he can go from ferocious to gentle, from mocking to caring, from sarcastic to sincere in the space of a few seconds.

The way he is inconsistent in his consistency dazzles her. He inclines his head slightly, and she swears he must have moved nearer too, because they're so close now that her knee is brushing his arm. She feels her spine uncoil, stretching as her back arches towards him, lips parting.

She can smell the whiskey and smoke on his breath now, can almost taste its warmth. His eyes are dark again; hungry as they dip down to her lips and back up. One slight movement and her nose would brush his, and it's like she can feel the strength and warmth radiating from him as he leans over her.

He rests one hand on her knee, fingertips absently caressing in circles that send shockwaves through her, though all that shows on the surface is a tremor. When he speaks, his voice is rough, barely a whisper, and his gaze is fixed on her lips now, mesmerised.

"Stop me."

Her heart stills in her chest. He's giving her a get out clause, a last chance to walk away. She watches as he drags his gaze back up to meet hers, and a smile curves her lips upwards.

"No."

He's even closer now, lips only millimetres away from brushing hers, and she feels his hand slide up her leg, his other coming to rest on the table by her hip. She tilts her face up further towards him, eyes searching his, waiting.

"You never bloody do as you're told," he murmurs, and brings the hand that's not on her leg to her face. He brushes her jaw with his fingertips, resting them just below her ear, tilting her head slightly.

And then, he's kissing her, and she's kissing him back, and all she can feel is the trembling pleasure of finally getting what she wants.

His lips are soft against hers, softer than she ever could have ever imagined, and hers mould to his perfectly, warm and inviting. They are utterly lost. She has always thought that their first kiss, should they ever have one, would be rough. It would happen in the heat of the moment, over before it had begun. But this kiss is slow, and tender in a way that makes her want to cry.

She feels his hand slide round to the back of her neck, rough fingertips caressing the sensitive point at her hairline, and she moans into his mouth. His hand tightens its grip on her thigh as he moves closer, deepening the kiss, and her own hands move up to rest against his shoulders, like she's clinging onto him for dear life, scared he might slip away.

He explores her mouth languidly, tongue caressing hers as he savours her, the taste of cool mint mixing with smoke and warmth, until neither is sure whose taste is whose anymore. They have moulded together, sharing the same breath, and she thinks that she will be happy for him to never pull away.

Her stomach is twisting delightedly, shivers brushing her skin like a feather as they continue to kiss, slowly consuming each other with all the growing heat of a slow burning fire. And it's like they're no longer dancing with each other now, no more lingering in the grey area, too scared to fall either side. This is the moment where they stop and stand still, and the time that passes in this place matters neither here nor there.

She feels alive for the first time, and there is no bullet, no past, present or future. It's just them, in a moment that exists outside of the rest of the world. And it is perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing that – especially as I was getting Galex withdrawal from doing NaNoWriMo. I hope you liked it, and please do leave your thoughts in a review.
> 
> Oh, and in case you're wondering, the title comes from the lyric of a Florence + the Machine song.
> 
> Eleantris. :)


End file.
